Down the Rabid-Hole

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh
manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And what the fock, curiouser and
curiouser are these Focks News Network-sponsored tax-protest tea
parties for our guns-and-god dirtball wannabe white-supremacist
less-than-a-crowd who swallow the spew from Joe Plumb and Plumber etc.
that if the ultra-rich folks have to pay some kind of income tax, then
it’s time to secede from Abraham Lincoln’s union of states and all move
to the Republic of Texas where George W. Bush could be our glorious El
Presidente.

As
Daffy Duck—that truly great aquatically iconic American hero not to
mention Nazi fighter—would say, “It is to laugh.”

Yeah, you betcha. Or
as Alice said as she left her wonderland tea party: “At any rate I’ll
never go there again!… It’s the stupidest teaparty I ever was at in all
my life!”

Suffering succotash, this au currant teaparty malarkey is
indeed a bad joke, which reminds me of a little story:

So this duck
hunter was out enjoying a nice morning on the marsh when he felt the
need to empty his urinary bladder. He walked over to a tree and propped
up his gun, just as a sudden gust o wind blew. The gun fell
over and discharged, shooting him smack-dab in the genitals. Several
hours later, whilst lying in a hospital bed, his doctor approached.

“Well
sir, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that you
are going to be OK. The damage was local to your groin, there was very
little internal damage, and we were able to remove all of the
buckshot.’’

The injured duck hunter, naturally, then asked for
the bad news. And the doctor said, “The bad news is that there was some
extensive buckshot damage done to your penis. I am going to have to
refer you to my sister.” And the hunter said, “I assume your sister is
a plastic surgeon?” To which the doctor replied, “No sir. She’s a flute
player in the Manitowoc Symphony. She’s going to teach you where to put
your fingers so you don’t piss in your eye.”

Ba-ding! But if you
ask me, this current tea-bagging tax hubbub has abso-fockinglutely
nothing to do with truth, justice and the American way. No sir, for
that we still have the Miss USA Pageant, ain’a? Oh yeah, and what a
competition it was this year that came right down to the blond gal from
North Carolina and the blond gal from California. And right before the judges made their carefully considered decision, I had this vision:

Miss
Carolina and Miss California were leaving the hotel on their way to the
pageant finals when Miss Carolina realized she had locked the keys in
their fancy rent-a-car. She was trying to pick the lock when Miss
California said, “Hurry up. Gawd. It’s starting to rain and you left
the top down, stupid bitch!”

Anyways, I believe the spirit and
soul of this United States of America remains strong, and will continue
so provided that “Christian conservative Republicans” are born again to
my definition of “Christian” and that Wall Street investment
bankers are launched into space so as to find some other economic
planet to fock up.

Our country needs to return to the ideal of good
intentions upon which it was founded. Doesn’t really matter if
they’re successful, just as long as they’re good. That’s the key. What
the fock, good deeds and kind words, that’s my kind of America. And so
I leave you with this inspirational story recently sent to me:

Dear
Artie: As a bagpiper, I was asked by a funeral director to play at a
graveside service for a homeless man who had no family or friends. The
funeral was to be held at a cemetery in the remote countryside and this
man would be the first to be laid to rest there.

As I was not familiar with the backwoods area, I
became lost and being a typical man, did not stop for directions. I
finally arrived an hour late. I saw the backhoe and the crew who were
eating lunch but the hearse was nowhere in sight.

I apologized
to the workers for my tardiness and stepped to the side of the open
grave where I saw the vault lid already in place. I assured the workers
I would not hold them up for long but that this was the proper thing to
do. The workers gathered around, still eating their lunch. And so I
blew my pipes and played out my heart and soul.

As I played the workers
began to weep. I played and I played like I’d never played before, from
“Going Home” and “The Lord Is My Shepherd” to “Flowers of the Forest.”
I closed this rather lengthy session with “Amazing Grace” and as I
walked to my car, I whistled “Danny Boy.”

As I was opening the door and
taking off my coat, I overheard one of the workers say to another,
“Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’ve never seen nothin’ like that
before, and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years.”

’Tis
true, much of a muchness these days, so don’t forget to live like you
mean it, as they say, until they say something else, ’cause I’m Art
Kumbalek and I told you so.